


Unusual

by TheBlackMagister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little anyway, Cunnilingus, Friends With Benefits, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Trans Sherlock, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, my sweet puppy..., sherlock is a vulnerable little man, theres a lil plot here... not much tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackMagister/pseuds/TheBlackMagister
Summary: In a last-ditch effort for distraction, Sherlock turns to Greg.





	Unusual

**Author's Note:**

> im a BITCH BABY who loves all these dumbass boys :') also, on a more serious note : this is like The First fic ive been able to work on and finish in .. ages. idk why. its been a real struggle. so i do apologize for being so slow and inactive :^( ill try 2 be better about things.

Sherlock hates going to Lestrade for help.

It makes him feel more than a little weak and needy. He’s heard the sentiment enough times before – _no reason to be ashamed seeking help from your friends_ – and Lestrade is his friend – but isn’t there a reason to be embarrassed? Not being able to handle this on his own? And anyway, friends don’t go to _friends_ with the kind of help Sherlock looks for.

Still, much as he hates it, here he is, ten o’clock on a snowy winter Tuesday. The cold is seeping through his coat, making him shiver; there’s snow dusted over his shoulders, catching in his curls and freezing the tips of his ears. He’s only been standing out here thirty seconds, but he thinks if Lestrade doesn’t open the door he may just find another way in.

Luckily, Lestrade only takes another five seconds to finally open the door. It’s obvious he’s been winding down after work, based on the fact that he’s got a glass of whiskey in one hand, and the fact he’s in his pyjamas. On top of this, he looks unsurprised to see Sherlock on his doorstep, and wordlessly he steps back to allow the detective in.

“Back so soon?” Lestrade prompts, clicking the door shut as Sherlock shakes the snow off, and Sherlock scoffs, going pink in the cheeks.

“Obviously.”

Lestrade gives him a knowing look, and he brushes past the older man into the living room, embarrassed. Lestrade follows him in. As per usual, he makes himself at home on the well-worn couch, shrugging off his coat and shucking his boots, Lestrade watching impassively from the doorway.

“So what do you need this time?” Lestrade asks, sipping from his drink. Sherlock sighs.

“If you don’t mind, I’m looking for a.. favor,” He says, shifting, and Lestrade quirks an eyebrow.

"'Course. I figured as much. What kind of favor?"

"A favor of a - er - sexual nature," He says delicately. This seems to catch Lestrade off guard; he looks surprised for just a moment.

“It’s been a long time, Sherlock,” Lestrade points out, frowning. “Almost a year.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock says, shamed and suddenly curt. “I just – I need this, tonight.”

Lestrade – _Greg_ , Sherlock tells himself, he’s really been bringing the hammer down on respect – frowns a little more. “Why?”

“Didn’t know I needed a reason.” Sherlock’s lip curls a little. “Look, if you don’t want to help me-”

Greg holds both hands up in surrender. As well as he can with a glass of whiskey, anyway. “Now you’re just putting words in my mouth, Sherlock. Just seems a bit odd, is all. But.. fine.” Greg comes to sit on the couch next to Sherlock, setting the glass on the table. “Come here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock crawls into his lap obediently. _This_ is why Sherlock comes to him; he does as he’s asked, always willing to help Sherlock out. His hands come to rest on the sides of Sherlock’s neck (warm, callused, lots of paperwork today) and brings Sherlock down for a kiss. It’s slow and open, and Sherlock sags into it, fingers winding into the other man’s short hair.

“You’re alright, though?” Greg murmurs, pulling back briefly, and Sherlock gives a little sigh.

“Yes. Now.”

He slots his groin against Greg’s. He likes the friction, and the soft, breathless noises it draws from Greg. For a few moments he lets it stay like that; his arms loose over Greg’s shoulders, thighs on either side of Greg’s hips, grinding slowly. This is what he craves more than anything – he doesn’t need sex so much as he needs the physical contact. And Greg is _plenty_ handsy enough to satisfy him.

“Come on, love,” Greg murmurs, hands moving down under Sherlock’s thighs in order to lift him. “Bedroom.”

Sherlock just nods and buries his face in Greg’s shoulder. The Detective Inspector is so warm and solid; it’s not often Sherlock feels safe enough to drop his guard, to give himself over to someone in such a way, but Greg always brings it out of him. It’s a problem, but not one that needs addressed, he thinks.

Greg carries him back and lays him out on the mattress, and he gives a little sigh, muscles relaxing. He appreciates the other man’s weight on top of him, the warm mouth on his neck leaving soft little bites and kisses, the hands creeping up under his button-up; he’s certain that there’s nowhere else on Earth that could make him feel this way, no other man. Not that he would ever admit as much, though he thinks his actions speak for themselves, anyway.

“You’re sure about this?” Greg prompts against his neck, and he groans vaguely.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Why are you worrying so much?”

“Because I can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve come to me for sex in the last five years.” Greg frowns, sitting back on his knees, and Sherlock, reluctantly, opens his eyes. “You know we’re going to talk about it later.”

“Later like after you fuck me into next week?” Sherlock huffs, and gets an eye roll in return.

“Yes, of course, how could I forget.”

“Good.” Sherlock reaches up, one hand winding into Greg’s hair to draw the older man down. Greg goes easily enough, meeting Sherlock’s lips briefly, then moving down to the slender column of his neck. Meanwhile his fingers work open the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, baring the pale chest to the cool air and eliciting a shaky sound from the slighter male.

“Beautiful,” Greg murmurs against his skin between kisses. “Gorgeous. Amazing.”

Sherlock makes a needy noise in the back of his throat. Greg kisses down his neck and then to his chest, soft lips closing around one pink nipple, and Sherlock gives a sigh of pleasure. Greg doesn’t stay there for long, though; instead, he continues on down Sherlock’s stomach, right down to the band of Sherlock’s dress pants. (Always the dress pants.) One hand slides into the slot between his thighs, fingertips passing over the dampness already gathering there.

“You remember how to do this, yeah?” Sherlock says, half-mocking, although the effect is slightly lessened by the wanting note in his voice. Greg shoots him a non-serious glare.

“Shut up and let me show you.”

Sherlock obeys automatically, hips lifting to allow Greg to tug his pants off. Greg, he thinks blithely, through the warm kisses up his thigh, is the reason he’ll never be satisfied with another partner. _Married men._ Too good at sex for their own good.

Greg nuzzles between his legs, lips brushing along the damp slit hidden under cotton. The contact makes Sherlock groan. He’s unbearably pent up, overly sensitive; he’s been turned on for hours, and any touch is a relief. It’s been forever.

His breath hitches as Greg draws his boxers off, only because Greg lightly rakes his nails gently down the detective’s thighs on the way. He’s got goosebumps, his face warm. Greg buries his face between Sherlock’s legs again, tongue gentle on the pink flesh, and Sherlock gives a strangled moan, reaching down and carding his fingers through Greg’s gray hair.

“Fuck,” He sighs, pleased, as Greg laps at him. “ _Christ_ , Greg.”

Greg hums. He uses both thumbs to part Sherlock, tongue dipping into the younger man and eliciting needy whines from the usually stoic detective. Sherlock is shaking a little, legs trembling in their place around Greg’s head. It’s _good_ ; he thinks blankly that he needs to thank Greg’s ex-wife for such good training. Or maybe Greg’s just got a natural talent for cunnilingus. Either way, he’s got Sherlock squirming, making little groans and sighs of pleasure.

Once he decides Sherlock’s been opened well enough Greg slides in one finger. Sherlock makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whine; he can feel the intrusion, the gentle calluses rubbing inside him. The first breach is always the worst, stinging despite the diminutive size, but Greg is so good to him, kissing his thighs and clit and hips until he relaxes.

“You’re so tight, love,” Greg coos. “So good for me.”

Sherlock can’t really help it; he’s melting, slipping easily into the submissive role that comes so naturally when he’s with Greg. His hips roll down as Greg eases in a second digit, a groan tearing from his throat. This time Greg kisses up his belly to his throat, beginning to work both fingers in and out of him; he accepts the kiss pressed to his mouth with a sigh.

“You alright with a third?” Greg murmurs against his lips, and he nods. His breath hitches as Greg slides in the third, stretching him almost uncomfortably. Automatically he curls one hand into Greg’s shirt. Greg presses a kiss to his temple. “Breathe, darling,” The other man soothes, gently, and Sherlock takes a deep breath. “You’re doing so good.”

“Nice to know my lack of practice is – is – _huff_ – still good enough,” Sherlock mumbles, eyes closed. Greg chuckles.

“You’re always good enough for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gives a breathless laugh, head falling back to the pillows, his curls fanning out across the white cases. “Sentimental,” He groans vaguely. His hips shift automatically at the slow fucking of Greg’s fingers; pleasure sparks up his spine as Greg thumbs over his clit. He _wants_ , so badly, although for _what_ exactly is up for debate.

“It’s not just me, though, is it?” Greg teases lightly, crooking his fingers inside Sherlock and eliciting a low groan. “You can fool the others, but not me, Sherlock.”

As much as Sherlock hates that, he adores it more; it’s absolutely invaluable to have someone who just _gets_ this part of him. John, he thinks, is convinced he has no (or few) feelings; as are most people he’s met. But Greg knows better.

“Now what do we say?” Greg prompts, and Sherlock gives a reluctant groan.

“Please,” He mumbles. “Fuck me.”

Greg gives a pleased hum. Slowly – agonizingly, teasingly, almost definitively on purpose – Greg withdraws his fingers. He gives Sherlock a few moments to breathe while he undresses; Sherlock’s still trembling, breath coming in short pants, gaze fixed on the ceiling, so he’s grateful for the temporary break.

By the time Greg’s naked Sherlock has calmed down, though his heart is still pounding, and he’s raring to go. He reaches out for the older man; Greg melts into him, body weight comforting on top of him. Greg coaxes Sherlock into a kiss, fingers stroking through his curls and eliciting soft sighs and hums. The kissing is sweet, putting Sherlock at ease despite himself.

“You know I’m not going anywhere,” Greg murmurs against Sherlock’s plush lips, meanwhile slotting himself between the slighter man’s spread legs. “Don’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathes back. “Are we going to get on with it any time tonight?”

Greg laughs, sitting back on his knees. Ever the impatient one. He smoothes his hands up Sherlock’s pale thighs, and leaves one on one slender hip; the other slides down, wrapping around his cock to position himself at Sherlock’s warm opening. Sherlock’s looking up at him with an expression of utmost trust, laid bare and open, and for a short moment it’s enough to take his breath away.

“All right?” He says, and Sherlock nods, once.

“All right.”

Slowly he begins to push in. Beneath him Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, eyelashes fluttering. It’s good, very good; it’s been so long, Sherlock had almost forgotten what Greg feels like inside him. Almost being the key word – it all feels so natural, so ingrained that as Greg is filling him Sherlock’s not sure how he could ever forget this feeling.

“Christ,” Greg huffs; his expression is one of concentrated pleasure. “You’re so fucking tight, ‘lock.”

Sherlock wants to snark back. He can think of so many answers, he even gets one to the tip of his tongue, but he seems to have lost all control of his bodily functions, and all he can do is give a strangled moan, his fingers scrabbling lightly at Greg’s tanned biceps, chest heaving. It takes all of his effort just to  _breathe_.

He makes a deep, pathetic sound as Greg hilts in him. He aches deep inside in the most wonderful way; waves of pleasure render him all but immobile and breathless, fingertips pressed hard enough into Greg’s skin that he’s sure he’s leaving bruises. Greg lets him. Always lets him.

“Okay,” He says, when he can make his tongue move again. “Move now.”

Greg obeys. He slides back slowly, then snaps his hips forward, eliciting a sharp gasp from the slighter man. It’s _fantastic_ ; Sherlock feels a little like his nerve endings are on fire, licking up his insides and burning him alive. _Oh_ , how he’s missed this.

It takes a few moments, but they fall into a somewhat steady rhythm: Greg hitches Sherlock’s legs up over his shoulders and drives down into the detective in sharp, harsh thrusts, and Sherlock squirms and writhes beneath him, panting and whining, hips rocking unsteadily in tandem with Greg’s. He’s a vision, all porcelain skin and dark curls, fingers curled in the sheets and back arched.

“Greg,” He gasps in between thrusts, eyelashes fluttering; his thoughts are all starting to blur together, pleasure making him numb. “Touch – touch me, please, please-”

Greg’s free hand slides between his legs, rubbing over his aching clit; his toes curl and he sucks in a hiss, teeth sinking into his lower lip; it’s so good it’s almost painful. Greg is giving him no reprieve, the way he likes it, fucking relentlessly into him until he’s a writhing, hiccupping, all-but-sobbing mess, begging incoherently and pawing at the back of Greg’s neck.

“Oh, doll,” Greg breathes against Sherlock’s neck, bracing himself on the mattress on either side of Sherlock. “Beautiful, Sherlock. So good for me. So – so good, so beautiful, oh, _Sherlock_..”

Sherlock makes a pitiful, strangled sound. Greg knows where his weak spots are, knows how to play him like a – like a damn violin. He would be happy, he thinks, to spend the rest of his life like this, being pounded into oblivion. Every part of him is aching with need, and for once, his brain is blissfully  _silent_. It's embarrassing, but it's been so long and he's so fragile, that he's already close, pressure coiling like a spring in his lower abdomen. He wonders if Greg can tell, in the dripping wetness from his cunt, in the gasping, feral cries that tear from his chest, and decides it's worth telling.

“Greg,” He chokes, eyelashes fluttering, and he paws at Greg’s shoulders. “ _Please_ , please. Going to – goin’ t’-”

“It’s alright,” Greg soothes, pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “It’s okay, love, let go, I’m here, I’m – I’m here,”

He keeps talking, Sherlock is sure, but Sherlock can’t hear the Detective Inspector over the high ringing in his ears. His walls contract around Greg’s cock, and his heart pounds in his throat (and other places), and his nails bite into Greg’s shoulders. It’s been some time since he’s last had an orgasm, mostly for lack of trying – he’s been busy – and he forgets how absolutely out of it he is afterwards. Greg making him come is, generally speaking, an absolute blessing.

A short round, this one, but that’s alright, Sherlock thinks, after Greg’s spent inside him and they’re lying quietly in bed together, fingers brushing in the middle. This is the most relaxed he’s felt in months. Which, he supposes resignedly, is why it can’t last; after a short breather Greg turns onto his side, taking Sherlock’s hand into his own.

“Alright,” He says. “Time to talk, Sherlock.”

Sherlock half-sighs, half-groans. “Lestrade-”

“No. Sherlock, you agreed.” Greg’s thumb runs over the soft pale knuckles, and Sherlock heaves another dramatic sigh. “Look, you never do this. Never. So why now?”

Sherlock turns over, stalling momentarily. Moonlight’s falling in through the curtains, giving the entire bedroom a slightly eerie glow. He watches their hands together, Greg’s tanned skin contrasting against his own, soothing, gentle. He wonders, somewhat selfishly, if this is what people mean by  _fate_.

“Sherlock.”

“I can’t sleep,” He says finally, somewhat abashed. Greg is watching him solemnly, dark eyes fixed on his face. Normally he’d recoil from it, reassemble his defenses, but right here, right now, the words clawing at his throat, he feels as though if he doesn’t tell somebody he may just-

“I can’t sleep,” He repeats, “and when I do it’s – I can’t _stay_ asleep. I keep going back there.” He swallows hard. “Sherrinford.”

Greg softens. “Oh, Sherlock,” He murmurs. Sherlock shakes his head.

“When I’m here, when we’re together, I’m not afraid. I wanted to be here.”

“You could have just asked for a movie night,” Greg points out, eyebrows lifting. Sherlock chuckles and turns back onto his back. That’s enough vulnerability for one night, he thinks, though he does feel better for his moment of weakness.

“Mm, well, I find it easier to sleep this way,” He says, glancing sideways at Greg, who snorts. “You understand.”

“Sure.”

Greg shifts up to the pillows and tugs up the sheets in order to force Sherlock up and against his side, at which point he wraps one arm around the slighter man. Sherlock grumbles and squirms, but it’s obvious it’s not real, and after a moment he settles with his face buried in the crook of Greg’s neck. He’s not normally cuddly, but then, lots of things have been unusual tonight.

“You’re gonna be alright, ‘lock,” Greg murmurs into his dark curls, and he sighs.

“I feel weak,” He grumbles. “I can’t even handle-”

“Hey.” Greg squeezes his hip. “That’s not true and you know it. What you went through.. even you have limits, love.”

Sherlock grunts noncommittally – his sign that he’s done, and that the conversation is over, and luckily Greg interprets this correctly and falls silent. His thoughts are still racing, his brain active as usual, and he’s sure in the next few hours he’ll likely wake Greg for another round, but for now he’s also satisfactorily sleepy, and he sighs again as he settles more comfortably against the Detective Inspector.

“Thanks, Greg,” He mumbles after a few moments of silence. “For, er.. being here.”

“Nothin’ doin’, darlin’,” Greg murmurs sleepily. “Go to sleep.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock tentatively lets his fingers twine with Greg’s just as he’s starting to doze. He’s on edge, though that’s not out of the ordinary, but he’s content – really, truly content. Even if their situation is a bit unusual.


End file.
